Like Ice
by FootNoodle
Summary: A chance meeting can ruin everything.
1. Chapter 1

**_Aww yeah! Storeh!_**

**_So Katniss is 8. Cato is 10. Let's go with that._**

**_Have fun! And please let me know if I'm too off-course. I was hoping to make it realistic, but who knows? I'll try and iron out any plot-kinks as we go, but hopefully the start isn't too terrible._**

**_WHOOO! I'm excited. After reading a beautiful story (I forget the name at the moment, but I'll note to myself to put it in the next chapter with credit to the author!) of this pair, I've been obsessed. So here we are._**

**_Thanks for reading!_**

Panic.

I stare into his cold blue eyes, bow strung, but wobbly in my hands. His bow, nicer than my own, also has an arrow at the ready, pointed directly at me. Should he release it, I would do the same. I assumed he was thinking the same thing as me.

In a stalemate of sorts, my eyes lock on his. He sends chills through me. There is a cold outer layer to him, like ice, and I get the feeling that he would have no remorse should this end in my death. I would feel bad for ending his life, which is what I want to avoid, but I have no chance. The boy seems to be older than I am by a year or two, and his height and weight are both substantially bigger than my own. The only chance I have is to wait for my father or talk my way out of this.

Seconds pass. There is no sign of my father. _Why did I wander off so far?_

I take a deep breath. The calculating look in his eyes makes me think he's weighing his options. Hopefully that means he's smart. Which means he'll listen to reason.

"I don't want to kill you," I say, breaking the silence we'd shared for the past fifteen minutes or so.

"I wouldn't mind killing you," he replies, but there is sarcasm there, as a defense. I have to get past that to make him lower his bow.

"We can both walk away," I offer.

He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it. He can't rebut me, to be honest. We are both breaking the law here, which means he couldn't tell on me without getting himself caught. I think he's realized the same thing for me. And if we can't turn the other in, we surely pose no threat to one another.

His bow lowers an inch, but it's still strung. "I guess there's no reason to harm you." His voice is softer. My heartbeat begins to steady.

"Ditto," I reply, hopefully lightening the tension we both feel. My bow lowers a tad more than his, but I'm still ready. By the looks of it, he's from a richer district. I was born to feel resentment toward his kind, and though I know I'm biased, it doesn't mean he won't follow the example of his others and trick me. I want his bow all the way down before I'll lower my guard.

He pauses, biting his lip. "We're just kids," he says quietly.

"We can't die yet," I agree.

Both of us drop our weapons. I put my arrow in my quiver and shift awkwardly. I can't just turn and walk away, my curiosity—and a bit of my pride—won't let me. Instead, I step forward. "Which district are you from?"

"Two," he replies. "You?" He looks me up and down, a crease forming above his brow as he takes in my scruffy appearance.

"Twelve," I grimace as I say it. We are frowned upon. The lowest, poorest district. Two is the Capitol's favorite plaything, which means they're pretty much loaded and look down on everyone else. I only hope this kid is different.

"Pretty gutsy, to be out here, Twelve."

"Could say the same for you," I reply.

He shrugs, moving toward his kill. I'd caught him while he was hunting, much as I'd been. He'd taken down a squirrel, right in its throat. He plucks his arrow from the animal, wiping it with a rag he produces from a fancy pouch, and looks at me as he hangs it on his belt. Already, his belt has two squirrels, a rabbit, and a duck strung around him. Mine looks pathetic in comparison, with only two rabbits and a small bird.

"You hunt?" he asks.

"Yeah," I reply. "We need to, for food. Why do you hunt?" District two has wonderful food, almost as good as the Capitol. Surely he has no need to steal my game. For a moment, I feel a flash of anger. He has no right, with delicate pastries and hearty, filling foods at his disposal, to be out here! He's taking what I need to feed my family! Arrogant jerk!

His eyebrows furrow again. "You hunt for food?" he echoes.

"Yeah," I say again, slowly, as if he isn't larger than I am and obviously older. "Twelve is sorta poor…we'd starve if we didn't come out here and hunt."

He looks surprised by this, and I'm surprised by his surprise. Surely he was aware that while he lived a life of luxury, we starved?

"I hunt for training," he says, answering my original question. I notice his chest puff out in a display of pride. "I'm destined to volunteer for the Games."

I shudder. Those damn games. Of course the citizens of higher districts—between one and four, it always seems—love them so much. They train their children, no matter how illegal it is, to prepare them to steal the honor and glory being a winner brings. This boy, who seems to be about ten, will become a ruthless killer in less than a decade. He will be trained to kill off twenty-three other children in the arena where the Games take place.

"That's horrible," I reply in sympathy. The boy scowls at me.

"Says you, Twelve. It's glorious. I'll be famous when I win," he snarls.

I raise an eyebrow at him. "And you'll be dead if you don't."

He shrugs. "There's no better way to die, then."

I sigh. It seems that the mental training begins much earlier. He's been brainwashed into believing that the Games were wonderful things. He truly believes they protect us. What a fool.

"What's your name?" I ask, hoping to veer the topic away. I don't want to be on the bad side of a future killing machine.

"Cato. Yours?" He seems to have forgotten the spat easily, his eyes wide and curious.

"Katniss," I reply. Silence spans afterward, and he shuffles his feet while I pick at the bark of a nearby tree.

"That was a good shot," I finally say, pointing to his newest squirrel.

"Thanks," he says, smiling at me. He looks down at my belt. I was still shaky with my bow, but I'd been getting better lately, and my shots were clean in the heart or head. "You're not so bad yourself," he says, and I detect surprise in his voice.

I look at him, taking a long, sweeping glance up and down the boy before me. People from other districts were like aliens to me, and to everyone else of district twelve. We weren't allowed to have direct contact, unless approved by the Capitol, or unless we are released into that dreaded arena to battle to the death. Under such circumstances, I'd begun to sometimes wonder if they even existed at all, or if I'd dreamed them up.

Now, however, I could drink one in—a future Career, no less! I had expected a ruthless monster, but the boy had softened into something almost normal. His skin was fair, his hair a pale golden color, and his eyes were blue and alight with curiosity and something else.

He looked normal. It was strange. I'd separated the thought of other districts and the thought of "normal" a long time ago. But Cato was human, like me.

I shrug. "Thanks," I echo.

We hear a twig snap in the silence that follows. I turn to see a rabbit scamper out of the brush, darting hurriedly through our small clearing. I take aim and fire at him.

He flops with a thud, silver arrow sticking awkwardly out of his temple. Near him, a wooden arrow sticks into the ground.

I scowl as Cato laughs. "You've still got a little bit to learn, Twelve."

He takes his kill, pulling out the arrow and wiping it. But then, with a quick, "Think fast," it's suddenly in my arms. My scowl deepens as blood splatters on me, but shock takes hold as I realize what he's done.

"But…" I begin.

He smiles. He's missing a tooth, which I find odd, but almost endearing. His voice is light, airy, and completely different from the coldness I'd received earlier. "Maybe I can teach you sometime."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Short chapter, I'm sorry for that. But we're getting somewhere. I'm outlining everything as of now. Here's an appetizer, and the meat and potatoes is on its way here soon. I think another two to three chapters should set the mood for our dear reaping and the events that follow._**

**_Also, sorry about the vocab I have in here. Katniss is still 8, Prim is 4, Cato is 10. I just figured that Katniss would be a smart little cookie. Advanced, which would put her ahead of her classmates. And honestly, she'd have to be smart from the get-go in order to take on the responsibilities when her dad died, right? Right. And Prim, I imagine is intelligent, but stays childish because she'd be more babied by the parents/Katniss. So anywho. Here ya are. I hope to move on maybe in the next few chapters. But eh, we'll see how it goes. I'm still trying to figure out what kinda pace I wanna take._**

**_Also, I plan to get back to all of your reviews sometime tomorrow-ish! So no worries, I've just been a little busy. But a response awaits, have no fear! So anywho…hope ya like!_**

**_Thanks for reading!_**

I smile at my father as I rejoin him. Cato and I had gone our separate ways not long after he'd given me the rabbit. Although he hadn't said anything to me, I knew that if I was to head in the direction of that clearing again, I'd probably find him there. And I truly wanted to go back, so as I made my way, I memorized large details and made sure to spread some fresh rabbit blood on trees to mark my path.

I have a friend. At least, I think.

I wasn't largely liked at my school. It wasn't that I was disliked; it was just that I was cold to newer people. Between the stress to learn at the ridiculously fast pace of the Capitol and the stress to not die of starvation, children my age didn't have the time nor the effort to put into warming up to me.

"Katniss," I heard my father call. I looked towards his voice as he broke through the trees at a light jog. Gingerly, I wiped the rabbit blood from my hands. "Where've you been? You've never gone off too far for me to find you." The concern in his voice outweighed the reprimand, and I had beamed happily at him.

I had debated on telling him about the district two boy. And in the end, I had decided against it.

"Hunting," I exclaimed, twisting around in circles to show off my heavy belt. The rabbit Cato had given me was quite large for its size and would feed us for at least two days. I was proud of it, even though I hadn't killed it myself.

And now we were walking in silence, my father having already congratulated me on my kills and putting them into his pack so I could walk easier. Together, we shimmy under the fence after listening carefully for the hum of electricity and finding nothing. He takes my hand as he leads me toward the Hob.

I wave at the usual customers, smile at the newcomers, and stay by my father as he does his normal trades. We leave with bread, rice, some choice herbs, and a few other odds and ends.

"Tonight," he begins dramatically, holding bread in the air.

I smile, mimicking his exaggerated voice, "We feast!"

Together, we walk home. While my mother and father talk of adult things in the other room, I take Prim to the corner where her toys lie. One is a simple string snake I'd made for her out of extra yarn I'd found on the floor of the hob and tied together, as well as some rubbery bark from a tree out in the woods. I'd painted crude red eyes with berry juice, and dyed a little yarn tongue on the front as well. I hand it to her and she jiggles it around, giggling.

"Prim," I say, leaning forward conspiratorially. She's a bright girl, although only four, and I grin at the interest shining clearly in her eyes. "Prim, I've made a new friend! Can you believe it?"

She smiles. She's missing her two front teeth, and I think back to Cato. He'd been missing a molar, but the similarity in the blonde hair and light eyes isn't lost on me. Briefly, I wonder if I could sneak Prim away with him so she could start a better life in a better district. It's heartbreaking to think of giving her away, but if she would be better off…

I shake the thought away immediately. It was preposterous, but it would be nice to dream about. Prim, happy and free in a pretty district with pretty clothes and pretty food and pretty people, which is not at all plausible, but still a delight to picture.

It takes me a second to realize how horribly off track my thoughts had gotten. She's nodding vigorously, eyes impatient as she begins to glare. One thing my mother and I had learned to never do around Prim was tell an incomplete story. The little girl would simply have none of it.

"He's a mean little boy," I say playfully, wrinkling my nose and sticking my tongue out at her. She laughs. "But he gave me a rabbit. He shot it himself, too! Isn't that nice?" I sigh lightly, smoothing out Prim's hair.

She nods slowly, young eyes keen as she waits for more information. So I tell her about stumbling onto the boy, reasoning with him, finding out where he was from and what he was doing. When I'm done, and tell her about setting a path for myself to go back, she grins widely and claps. "Katniss has a friend!" she exclaims. I smile.

"Yeah, I guess I do, huh?"

We lapse into silence, playing with her toys as the discussion finally comes to a close. When dinner is ready, we sit for a nice family meal. Dad boasts to Mom and Prim about how I'd killed the rabbit we were eating, telling them that it was a nice rabbit, juicy and good for a few more meals. However, it only makes me think about Cato, and I feel a tad guilty, not telling them the true origins of the meat. However, I get the feeling that they wouldn't like me endangering myself with him—even though I somehow know that I was safe. After all, we were both law breakers, right? No one had leverage. Just two kids hunting in the woods illegally…simple.

I suppress a giggle, as it is anything but simple. Instead, I quietly chew my food, occasionally sending a compliment my mother's way, and think back on the strange, alien boy I'd found in the woods today. To me, he was from another world. And yet I'd also seen how similar we were. Although I couldn't jump to the conclusion that we were "friends" as Prim had, I held hopes to become acquaintances before…well before the Games. Specifically, _his_ Games, the time that his trainer decided that he would be ready to volunteer and bring honor to his district. Until then, I would see what awaited me in the woods tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Some time has passed, here. Katniss is now 11. Prim is 7. Cato is 13. I have a love/hate relationship with this chapter…meh. Lol. I'll get to your reviews right after posting. I want to thank you for the support, though. It's quite nice to hear the feedback. OH! ALSO! The story I read and loved is "The Populous Decree" by SlyPuff RavenDor! Please do read and make sure to leave her a nice review!_**

**_Anywho! Hope ya like!_**

"Mom! _Mom!_"

Tears are in my eyes, blurring her face as she stares back at me, but I know that nothing has changed and nothing will. I have no emotion to look for, because she refuses to show any. I shake her arms violently, probably too hard, but I don't care anymore. It had been days like this. _Days. _And still she'd done nothing but sit in this chair and weep. And even now, she'd run out of tears. Couldn't she see that I was grieving? That Prim was lost and hungry? That her children were sitting here starving while she just didn't care?

Finally, I stand up from my kneeling position in front of her. Her glassy eyes are the only things that move to follow me as I make my way toward the door. It's cold out, but I have no other choice. We woke to empty cabinets this morning, and I knew then that if I didn't snap my mother out of this that we would starve.

However, it's obvious that she is hell-bent on staying this way. And at this point, I don't care. If she is going to revert into a comatose state, well, that's fine by me. Still, though, Prim needs someone.

I am the only person left now.

My heart clenches in my chest, twisting violently. Tears fall like fire down my cheeks. My nose burns. This is not what I want, nor what I need. Can't she see that I'm hurt, as well?

I march out of the house, not looking back. Prim knows how to take care of our mother while I'm away. She trusts me. And she's smart. I'm sure she suspects where I'm going.

The fence is silent, so I slip underneath. I hold my breath at the sight of my bow, made just for me by my father, but I try not to dwell on any unpleasant thoughts.

I follow my usual path in the woods. I'd memorized it after a few months of going back to the clearing to see Cato again. Every time I'd gone, he was there, standing still and looking like he was waiting for something. When we joined each other, we would say nothing, stealing into the woods and hunting together silently. Hours would pass until I heard my father whistling for me, and I'd smile and wave at him. "Bye, Cato," I'd say.

"See ya, Twelve." And then he'd throw me one of his kills. Unless there was a fluke day where we shared meaningless conversation, that was the extent of our interaction. But we didn't need to say anything, really. We both had a purpose behind what we were doing, so we weren't about to distract each other.

Now, however, the clearing was empty. I had figured he wouldn't be here. His district was cozy and heated, so surely he wouldn't be able to come out and stand the cold of the real wilderness. He'd stay in his artificial heat and sip on something warm and tasty.

I had always envied Cato, secretly, from the moment I'd met him. If I wasn't able to steal bits and pieces of hunting knowledge from him here and there, I probably would never have come back to see him again. His district was respected, and rich, and mine was the opposite. I hated it.

I shake my head. These thoughts aren't helping me focus. I crouch and make my way into the woods, but something suddenly glints in the corner of my eye. I turn, and gasp as the head of an arrow shoots through the air, aimed for my chest.

I'm frozen. "Duck!" the word breaks through, and I do so just in time. I hear the arrow stick into the tree behind me, and I stay still, crouched on the ground and shaking. My heart pounds icy blood through my veins. My extremities are numb.

Cato runs toward me. He's tall now, much taller than I am. His face looks much more mature than it had when I'd first met him. But this isn't what throws me off. It's the strange look in his eyes. I can't place what it is.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. His voice cuts through the air. It's colder than the temperature. "I could have killed you."

He looks like an adult. It's scary. I had come here to get away from adults. To get away from everything bad. I wanted my _friend_. But suddenly, I realized that Cato wasn't my friend. Maybe he never had been, but that was what I ached for now. My father had been my go to. He was my confidante. And I knew nothing about Cato other than his name and his inevitable fate.

What was I doing here?

My stomach rolls uncomfortably inside of me. His cold gaze is still on me. My tears come back, and I only barely manage to keep them from falling. My voice wavers, and I hate the sudden weakness in it. My knees wobble. "Cato?"

"What are you doing out here?" His voice is icy. Has he always been like this? I don't think so. But what changed? I hadn't seen him in a few months because of the frost, but that wasn't enough time for a person to change, was it? But then my mother's face flashes in my mind. Since we'd gotten the news two weeks ago, she hadn't been the same. Now she is barely a person. It doesn't take very long. That scares me.

Even scarier, I think that he might not have changed at all. Maybe I had.

My thoughts get pushed away as he shakes me, holding me by my upper arms, leaning forward and talking loudly and slowly. I'm painfully reminded of doing the very same to my mother. "Katniss? _Katniss_? Can you hear me? _Hello_?"

"Yeah," I say. My voice sounds steadier than I thought it could. My heart beats wildly. "Yeah, I can hear you."

"Well then, how about you tell me what you're here for. You never come when it's cold."

"We need food," I say simply. _Please drop it and let me hunt. My toes are numb._

"I thought your dad took care of that during winter?"

I shake my head. "He did."

And then, Cato is silent. His face is blank. I can tell he knows, but I'm thankful that he doesn't seem prepared to pursue it. "I just need to hunt. To find something to eat. Prim is so hungry…I thought you would help me…" It feels like I'm admitting my defeat. But everything is true. I wouldn't have come if I hadn't secretly hoped that Cato was here.

"Okay," he says quietly. He unhooks a rabbit from his belt, and then another. All that's left is a small bird, which I don't expect him to give up. He clips them onto my belt, bending down and tightening it around me. The action reminds me of something I would do for Prim. It feels nice, being the little sister. Even if I'm not, and even if it's only for a moment. "Let's hunt," he continues.

The hours pass easily. I almost forget everything that has happened in the past few weeks. A twinge of pain remains in the back of my heart, but I placate it by focusing on my hunt as my father had always instructed me to do. Cato never strays very far from me, and though I'd been scared of his change earlier, now we feel the same as we always do.

My near-comfort shatters, however, as we meet again to sit in the clearing. Light snow has begun to fall, and although I want to leave, I know that I have nothing to go back to at the moment. Sure, there was Prim, but I knew she was okay without me for a few more minutes. I had hoped for a comfortable, companionable silence as we sat, not looking at each other, but not avoiding each other either. Instead, his eyes focus on me. I'm brutally reminded of the change in him.

"I won't be coming back," he says. "After today. My birthday is tomorrow. I'll be fourteen."

I'm astonished. I don't know how to react, so I don't. I don't even look at him. "Why?"

"I have to be trained better. I'm not even going to school. I'll just be focused on the Game."

I wonder what he'll do after he wins. I know for a fact that Cato will win—he is strong. Stronger than anyone. I'd seen him with his sword, axe, and spears; and I know he was always meant to be a Career. People in his district married to breed better children, and Cato seemed to me to be the peak of this selective breeding. Almost god-like in his abilities. But that was it; he was being built for the Games. So what would he do when he won? When the glory was over, and he was just another victor? Could he stand it?

I look away from him. "I won't see you here anymore?"

"No."

I nod. "Okay."

And then we stand, brushing white flakes from our damp clothes. He hands me another rabbit he'd killed. As an afterthought, he sets down his bow and arrows. "Take these," he says. "I'm not very good with the bow anyway. You need it more than I do."

I sigh. This is hard. I want to grab him and explain that I wouldn't be able to feed my family without him. Instead, I pick up his bow, which is surprisingly light, and sling his quiver over my shoulder. Snow glitters on his eyelashes. "Sorry I gotta go," he says. It's the most sincere thing he'd said yet. I look into his eyes and they're glassy.

I realize then. The change in him. The reason he just knew. The reason he didn't point it out or ask about my father.

_Who has he lost?_

"Does it get any easier?" I ask him. I hadn't formed the words in my mind, but I don't regret them.

"Yeah, it does. Kinda. You'll get over it. You're strong." He isn't looking at me. I'm not looking at him.

We don't say goodbye this time.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Fourth chapter! I'm feeling decent. I've got nice character charts flowing now. It's interesting, because I really wanna delve into the minds of our dear characters. Especially Cato. What's a Career like? I'm hoping to find out. TRULY find out…hopefully. Lol._**

**_OH YEAH! Prim is 12. Katniss is 16. Cato is 18. We all know what happens now._**

**_Sorry guys, but if you wanted to read chapters 1-2, you wouldn't miss TOO much out of this chapter. It's a recap with different words and some twisted stuff because of Cato's influence. But in the end, not much happens that we don't already know about. But I feel like this milestone must be reached before we can move on to the prep/games._**

**_Thanks for reading!_**

Gale's constant chatter about the Capitol, about how unfair and terrible it is, can occasionally get to me. Which is why I'm thankful that the nearing reaping has us silent as we walk the streets of the Seam. I don't know why a part of me disliked his talkative moments. When we hunted, he provided company that I fiercely craved, but he provided it…wrong. I felt guilty when I hunted with Gale. Although I wasn't quite sure why.

Gale could be good company. It wasn't that he was wrong, either. Everything he yelled about on our hunts was correct. The Capitol's trickery. Its corruption. How unfair the whole system was. He was never wrong, and I agreed. But he wasn't changing anything with his anger. And the guilt that ate at me as I looked at him with his open emotions and loud mouth and dark hair didn't help, either. However, he was my friend. I was closest to him. Without him, I wouldn't have made it this long. I would have given up long ago.

Part of me knows that is a lie. Part of me knows what—more specifically, _who_—had given me the strength to continue. The strength to get up every morning and hunt long before the school bell rang. The strength to take the responsibilities my father had left behind. And every morning, when I feel the light weight of that old bow, still shiny and clean and amazing, I know that I can go on and do what I need to do. I think of those icy blue eyes, of the emptiness in them I saw on our last and final meeting, and I wonder who he'd lost and why. I wonder if he is as broken as I was.

And I know, when I think these things. I know that I can go on. For Prim, for mom, for Cato, for Gale, and for me.

As we near my home, we stop. Today is the reaping. Today, two children will be sent to their nearly certain death and it will all be televised. Today, the Capitol will do us one more injustice.

I look at Gale. His mouth is in a tight line, and I know he's thinking the same. But we must take our leave to get ready.

We divide our spoils equally. "See you in the square," I say at last, ready to part ways. I need to go home and fix myself up for the uneasily high chance that I'll be chosen.

"Wear something pretty." His voice is flat.

The preparation is easy. I hesitantly put on one of my mother's old dresses, still trying to learn how to trust her. The betrayal at her emotional abandonment is still fresh in my mind. I don't know how I had bounced back from it.

The thing is, I know exactly how I'd made it. I know _who _had given me the strength to convince myself that the pain would go away and get better. And in a way, Cato had been right. But I wasn't going to tell Gale any of that. My Seam friend had questioned me on the origins of my silver bow. I'd simply told him I had no idea, that it was my father's. But I knew. I know.

Shaking the repetitive thoughts away, I finish getting ready for the reaping. When Prim and I are dressed, we walk with our mother in tow. She takes her place in the crowd that is no longer eligible. I walk further into the mass of people, finally stopping at Prim's area. She's farthest in the back, with the other twelve year olds. I can see girls my age closer to the stage. I must go join them soon.

I squeeze Prim's sweaty, trembling hand. As I look around at the banners and the cameras, I briefly think of Cato. He's eighteen now. He had yet to appear in any of the Games. Had he given up on being a Career? Had he listened to me and become a sensible person with a job and a family? I hope so.

However, I cannot dwell on that. Prim is shaking more now, and she isn't letting me go. "You'll be fine," I say at last.

"It's not me that I'm worried about," she whispers. I have no rebuttal. I know that she refers to me. I look away from her scared, pleading eyes.

Silently, I slip my hand from hers, wave goodbye, and take my place in the crowd. Effie Trinket and the mayor speak, and I'm not able to listen. I see Gale standing with the eighteen year old males, and his smile is meant to be reassuring, but I only feel worry growing in my stomach.

Something isn't right here, I can feel it.

As Effie delves into the bowl of female tributes, the feeling intensifies, rolling into a heavy ball of dread in the core of my body. I know that there's something wrong. I just know.

And then she pulls a small, delicate strip of paper, making a show of unfolding it, eyebrows raised and lips pursed in curiosity. _It must be easy to be so interested when you don't have a chance of being sent to your death._

As the slip is unfolded and she takes a deep breath, her eyes sweeping the name, I begin my mental mantra. _Don't let it be me, don't let it be me, don't let it be me…_

And it's not.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

At first, I'm shocked. I feel myself shaking, but surely I misheard. It is Prim's first reaping. I wouldn't let her take tesserae. Her name is one among over four thousand. _The odds are in her favor._

Apparently not.

I see her as she steps into the aisle. Effie's artificial eyes lock onto her. They show surprise at the girl's young age, but then it softens into a smile. As if this is an award ceremony. As if we're _happy_ about this.

Prim shakes as she walks. Her blouse is sticking out in the back, like a duck tail, and it is this detail that sends my stilled thoughts reeling. Little Prim. My dear sister. I'd done everything I could to keep her well and happy, alive and fed, and now she was being sent to her death. Effie's eyes remind me of a snake's.

Prim's snake toy flashes into my mind. She still loves it, still plays with it if she has nothing to do. I imagine it caked in dust, sitting in her abandoned corner. I imagine my mother broken beyond repair as she gazes out that same window. I imagine doing the same.

I wouldn't be able to cope with my sister's death. Not when I'd devoted my life to keeping this from happening.

I break into a sprint as she nears the stairs to the stage. She's trembling violently now. I feel just as shaky as she looks, but I press my feet forward until I'm breaking from the crowd into the aisle. "Prim! _Prim!_" I scream. My voice is shrill, broken and frazzled just as my thoughts are. She turns to me. There are wet trails on her cheeks.

"No! No! _No!_" Peacekeepers grab at me. Their hands are rough, scraping my skin as they take hold of me and pull me back. This cannot happen. I will not allow it to happen.

"I volunteer!" I gasp. "I volunteer as tribute!"

The peacekeepers stop, their hands hesitant on me now. I pull from their grasp, stepping forward confidently. Prim has paused, turned to me, mouth agape like everyone else. The members on stage fidget, unsure of what to do now. This is rare in district twelve, I know that. But a sense of peace fills me. _Prim is safe._

"Lovely!" Effie exclaims. She babbles about protocol, but soon enough the mayor intervenes, and instead of being dragged away, I'm being lead on stage. Prim is screaming, crying, choking on tears. I'm not sure how to feel about that as everything goes numb. From my head to my toes, I feel tingly and mushy, as if I'm made of a limp leaf that could blow away with the breeze. But I take confident looking strides onto stage, and I stand among the people who are sentencing me to my death, and I stare back at the crowd as I tell Effie my name. It's hard to choke it out around the lump that has been placed firmly in my throat.

I feel detached.

She asks for applause, clapping animatedly. In response, she gets silence. I do not feel offended, for in the eyes of the audience, I see hatred. This silence sends a message. We do not condone. This is not right.

Instead, the people of my district surprise me. One by one, they press three fingers to their lips. Then they hold them up toward me in salute. My heart clenches painfully. I might heave up my lunch. I want to cry, but I know I can't seem weak. Not now. Not when weakness is death.

It means honor. It means thanks. It means love. But more importantly, it means goodbye.

I look back blankly. My eyes fall upon my district. It's where I've grown up. Nothing here is new. But now everything seems different.

Maybe because this is the last time I'll set eyes upon it.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Well, I'm sincerely sorry for the delay here. End of the year testing and all that left me with plenty of work to be done, so I only got to write this in small spurts. But most of that is out of the way now, so my plan for the moment is to upload this, start the next chapter, and then finish a paper that's due the day after tomorrow. UGH SCHOOL WHYYYYY._**

**_Okie dokie. Here ya go. We see Cato in the flesh next chapter! :O_**

**_Thanks for reading!_**

The goodbyes were hard. Harder than I'd imagined. I'd been on autopilot, only half feeling everything happening, but when I'd seen Prim and held her as she'd cried, my heart wilted in my chest. Then it burst into flames of anger as I shouted at my mother. But in my mind, I was reliving those days when she was gone, a mannequin in the corner of our small house as she grieved. The other visitors didn't pain me as much, and their words had faded into a haze in my mind.

All I could think about was that I was leaving. I was going to the Games. I was going to my death.

Now, as I sit on the train, it's easier. The other tribute, Peeta Mellark, sits next to me as we begin eating. I have no words to describe the succulent food of the Capitol. There simply is no comparison to the simple things my mother, Prim and I had been able to make in our little hovel. I feel as if all my life, I'd eaten nothing more than air. But soon the rich food gets to me, and Peeta and I share a sick look.

Effie moves us into another compartment on the train. I have to move slowly, however, because the abundance of food and the speed of the train throw me off. Twice, bile threatens to rise in my throat, but I think of Greasy Sae's concoctions and convince myself that if I can eat that, I can eat lavish Capitol food with no problems. My stomach, however, disagrees.

This is where we are to sit for the next two hours as the reapings play before our eyes. I hope that Effie has the decency to allow me to leave after district eleven's, because at this point, I'm sure I couldn't stomach reliving it again.

The anthem plays as high up officials flash on the screen. President Snow gives a speech about the games, about the history, and so on. I don't listen. Instead, I sit still and clench onto the plush seat below me, digging my chewed nails into the soft fabric and hoping that the reapings will be easy to watch and get out of the way.

District one starts. The girl called is named Glimmer. She looks disinterested by the whole thing as she struts forward. Her dress is divine, her hair perfect, and her face is that of an angel's. People in her district stare in awe as she passes and goes to the stage. The breathtaking smile she gives them urges the applause into a roar.

Next is an average, stocky boy with dark hair and green eyes. His face is not unattractive, but the pug-nosed expression plastered there makes me uneasy. His eyes are shifty as he gazes at the audience, almost as if he's appraising them. He does not smile or wave. I don't know if it's from blinding fear, as I'd felt, or just from anger and confidence of winning.

There's a pause as the anthem plays again. Announcers review the two tributes for a brief amount of time. Then Panem's emblem flashes onto the screen and the second reaping starts.

A girl named Clove is called. She is small, with dark hair, dark eyes, and freckles. Her features are delicate, almost elven, and I would have felt horrible for her if her expression wasn't one of fierce satisfaction. She marches onto the stage and the audience claps loudly. Her answering smile is almost predatory.

A boy is called. His name is Arelius, and he looks confident. His dark hair is styled perfectly, his clothes are well matched, and his light eyes hold conceit that simply oozes from every pore of him. But before he can take his place on stage, there is movement in the corner of the screen.

"I volunteer to take his place!"

The camera quickly pans to the speaker, and now I'm almost positive I'm going to lose my meal.

_No. No, please. Don't let this be really happening._ However, it is. I watch him as he steps into the aisle, much as I had done. His eyes are cold, like ice, and nostalgia grips me. But there's something so different about him now. The towering male that steps up to the stage, muscles rippling and expression grim, is not the boy I'd known. This is not the boy that had saved me by giving me his bow and his strength to continue.

This detached, alien being, is a Career tribute. This is Cato now.

I begin to gag. I jump from my seat and fight my sudden vertigo to get to a nearby washroom. The toilet inside is a simple porcelain bowl with a handle, which I'm thankful for as I lean over it and retch. The Capitol has too many complicated devices, and I know I didn't have time to figure it out in these circumstances.

When done, I wipe my mouth and lean against the cool side of the bowl. No one has come to retrieve me yet, for which I'm thankful. I want to be alone.

That was Cato. I had no doubt in my mind. He was there, volunteering for the Hunger Games. The very same ones I'd volunteered for as well. _The odds are definitely not in my favor,_ I think dryly. My stomach churns, but nothing comes up.

"Why?" I whisper to myself. This complicates things to a whole new level. Before, I'd had no attachments to the Games or the tributes in it. Not even my district partner. I knew vaguely of Peeta Mellark, the baker's son, but we'd never met nor spoken. I owed him nothing.

Cato, however, I owed my life. And the life of my family. I'd fed them for years now on his bow, on his strength and encouragement. And now I was going to be thrown into a ring to kill him.

His eyes haunt me. They are worse than our last meeting. They aren't simply closed off anymore, but dead. As if he's lost his humanity. As if he's _gone_. But he simply has undergone the transformation from person to Career tribute. He is now a machine trained to kill.

Trained to kill _me_.

As I begin to close my eyes and fight away the tears I feel pooling behind them, Effie walks into the bathroom. Her heels, much too high, click on the tile below her as she strides over to me. They flash colors before my eyes when she stops. I watch silently, and the erratic woman says nothing.

Moments pass. She stands still, silent, so unlike her. I lean against the bowl. There's an understanding between us, but I know it won't last long. So before she has a chance to say anything, I heft myself up on shaky arms. My knees wobble as I put my weight back on them. For a moment, I feel dizzy.

Her eyes are as soft as I'd seen them. "What a mess," she says, clicking her tongue and flushing the toilet. I can't tell if she was talking about me or the vomit.

We rejoin Peeta in silence. My fellow tribute looks worried, and as his eyes meet mine, I can't help but look away. When I see those open emotions in that clear blue, I think of someone else, someone I'd met so long ago in the middle of the woods when we were children. It seems as if a whole lifetime has passed. My father had died. Cato had lost someone as well. We'd grown into two completely separate things. And now, we were pitted against each other.

The tape has stopped, and I notice Effie rewound it to the beginning of district two's reaping. I want to ask her to skip it, but I don't dare. Instead, I sit next to my district partner in silence and hope to stomach it.

We go through it again. Cato looks so much older than he is. An ache forms in my chest, because as I gaze at his satisfied face, I can find no trace of my friend there.

My thoughts feel redundant. They repetitively swirl around the idea that I'll have to kill the boy who saved me so I can live. And each time they wonder…_is it possible? Can I do it?_

I think of the one thing that has kept me grounded this whole time: Prim, and even she doesn't offer me much confidence. I'd sworn to her that I'd try my very hardest to win, but Cato had saved her, as well. I owed him so much. And now I could do nothing to repay him.

The reapings continue. I notice the fox-faced girl, the crippled boy from ten, and little Rue. But then our reaping comes on.

The whole scene hurts to watch. I detach myself, trying to pull away from my emotions and only see the pictures before me. But when the cameras zoom in on Prim as she kicks and screams against Gale, trying to stop me from volunteering, I feel tears in the corners of my eyes. Haymitch falls off the stage, Peeta appears, we leave, and the television goes black. I sit there silently. I imagine Effie, Peeta, and I would have spoken under normal circumstances; but after my episode, no one dares to even look at anyone else.

I get up to leave, my lips pursed as I try to keep my raging thoughts at bay. The door clicks shut behind me, and there's a sinking emptiness in my stomach that I know no amount of rich Capitol food will fix.


	6. Chapter 6

**_I'm such a tease._**

**_They see each other. Does that count? :P_**

**_I'm sorry guys. Slow build and all. But I'll see what I can do in the next chapter when we get into the actual training. I also don't want to focus on all that too long. You know, hit the highlights with some Cato thrown in there where he shouldn't go, and bam, move along to the Games._**

**_Man I'm tired._**

**_But I'm posting this because I feel bad for my delay on the last one. And also the delay on answering all those reviews. But here we go._**

**_Thanks for reading!_**

I imagine that if I hadn't promised Haymitch my compliance, I would have allowed my irritation to bubble forth and at the very least complained about what they were doing to me.

It had started with a scrubbing rinse that removed any dirt and grime, and probably some skin as well, from my body. After that, they'd gotten out small tools to fix my nails into perfect little crescents, longer than I was used to but not ridiculously so. Now they are ripping at the hair on my legs, tearing it off onto chunks of paper and grimacing at the amount of small, dark down before throwing it into a swiftly filling bin. Somehow, I feel their disgust for the hair seeping into me as well, and soon enough I start to wonder how I'd left it there for so long.

Hours pass this way, where I stand, bare but not uncomfortable, and the team plucks and primps me. Although I physically don't feel shame for my body, I still feel unease at the preparations they are making. As if I'm a chicken, being plucked and cleaned only to be eaten alive. I gulp and stand straighter, wincing as another rip brings my mind back to their ministrations.

"Sorry," Venia says yet again, her Capitol accent making it hard to distinguish each syllable as they roll together in strange ways, "I'm really sorry! You're just…you're just so hairy!"

I sigh. "So I've gathered."

"Alright, good news," she crows, spreading more wax on another section and pressing the paper to it. "Last one! Ready?"

I nod, wincing as she rips it quickly. "There we are!" she chirps happily.

Flavius and Octavia, the other members of my team, had been doing something—what, I really wasn't sure—behind me. Now, they come around and give me praise for doing so well as they slather lotion onto my bare skin. At first, it begins to sting and tingle like I'm numb, but then it starts to soothe the irritated skin and make it return to the tan color it used to be, instead of the angry red all my plucking had transformed it into.

Now it was over, though, and my helpers squealed and ventured off to find my stylist. I was a little bit worried about what was in store—stylists worked closely with the tributes for hours on end. If I'd already endured so much meticulous horror without him here, what would happen when the elusive Cinna was finally giving the orders? A shudder runs up my spine and the door opens.

In steps a young man with closely cut hair and light eyes. He stops for a moment to appraise me, and my breathing stops in turn to appraise him and his…normality. The only odd, Capitol influence I can pick out on him is a dash of silvery gold atop his eyelids, matching the shine in his eyes. But his clothes are average, his skin a normal color for a human, and all of his features are not out of the ordinary. Instantly, my nerves ebb as I feel hope rising in me—if he looks so normal now, maybe I won't look so freakish later?

We greet each other, and he asks for a moment as he swoops around me once again. I feel uncomfortable at first, but by now the feeling of eyes on my bare skin has little effect on me and it's easy to recede into the thoughts that had been nagging at me since that night in the train. However, it isn't long before Cinna pulls me away for conversation, and I feel grateful for that.

He asks about my hair. After a moment of staring at him dumbly, I remember my mother's pretty braid is still wrapped on the back of my head, and I tell him that she'd done it. He babbles about its beauty and I try—I really try, but I fail, to listen.

"You're new," I state at last, as he passes by my front. He looks at me, one eyebrow raised, and I feel doubt roll in my chest. I'd never paid attention to the Games I'd despised, so maybe I had missed him? "Aren't you?" I continue dubiously, my voice weaker. "I…I don't think I've seen you before."

"Yes," he confirms easily, his voice smooth. "This is my first year in the Games."

There's a mocking lilt to my voice—not for him, just for the bias of the Capitol, "So they gave you district twelve."

His expression does not change, and his voice is still the soft, but strong, tone it had been. "I asked for district twelve." He doesn't offer any further explanation or insight as he instructs me to put on the robe. I hesitate, moving mechanically, as I wonder at his revelation. No one _asks_ for district twelve…we are the failures.

He leads me to a room that I don't focus on for very long. It's nice, but everything is nice here. He presses a button and hands me the instant meal that follows. It's delicious smelling chicken with some sort of fruit tang, and I know it is only the best that one could get. This is the Capitol, after all.

I imagine trying to make it at home, where our delicacies are weak katniss soup and rough, grainy bread. Maybe I can tenderize the meat to make it bearable. Maybe we can spare some herbs for flavor instead of medicine. But in the end, food was never a pleasure in district twelve, just a necessity. It kept me going to find even more of it for the next day. Energy. Not leisure.

Cinna's eyes find mine as I look up. "How despicable we must seem to you." I wonder if he can read my mind, but I don't say anything. It's not like he's wrong—they were disgusting creatures. If they weren't, I wouldn't be sitting here now, dolled up for my inevitable death. The only thing keeping me from loathing Cinna was his humble sense and his average looks. "No matter," he continues casually, but there's something in his eyes like pain. He knows just how deep my hatred runs for these people. Can they even be called that?

As we talk idly about past ventures with clothing, I wonder which overdone monstrosity I'll be placed in for the parade. It had ranged from trendy coal miners to naked, shivering kids covered in black coal dust. Each time, the crowd responded with half-hearted cheer, more for courtesy than anything. And I know that mine won't be much better.

Cinna describes them briefly before saying that he wants to take a different angle this year. He wants us to be remembered, so he went with coal. _Wonderful. Naked and covered in black dust. That'll get them going for sure._

"And what do we do with coal? We burn it," he says, his voice rising with an anticipation that his previously serene exterior can't hide. His eyes light up. "You're not afraid of fire, are you, Katniss?" his tone is light with some mocking undertones, and his grin seems predatory as he sees my face.

Hours later, I stand dubiously with Peeta as we make a small, short agreement to pull each other's capes off the moment we feel the burn of fire. Cinna and Portia have reassured us many times that the fire is synthetic and safe, but the hesitant glances my fellow tribute sent me told me that he was about as convinced as I was. Cinna lit our costumes, jumped down, and yelled for us to hold hands. The cool tingling, but lack of burn, has me giddy with relief and I smile at the boy next to me. As the chariots began rolling, our hands found one another. Again, the relief pools in my stomach, and I feel dizzy from my sudden swing of emotions. I give Peeta a gentle squeeze, worried that I'm swaying too much. He squeezes back and grounds me there.

Our reception is amazing.

I float through the waves, the screams, the cheers and claps and roses and wonder. I'm flying, soaring high, feeling truly elated as we make our way through the furiously agitated crowd. The Capitol people are throwing themselves to and fro in their seats, my name on their lips, practically fainting as their faces turn red with excitement.

The feeling is indescribable.

When we roll to a stop, part of me is still high in the sky, looking around at my adoring fans, my growing sponsors, and I squeeze the life out of Peeta's hand happily. The other part works to calm me down and to try to remember what's supposed to happen next. My mind is made of cotton.

Then there's the other part. The part that had repeatedly glanced at the screens surrounding the audience, the screens showing all the other tributes. The part that waited and watched for that one face, hoping that it would show up but knowing that if it did, I couldn't bear to see it. That part scans the city's center looking for him. My heart stutters and jumps, my stomach dropping into my shoes, and I can't breathe correctly. I strangle Peeta's hand.

It's been years since I've seen him in the flesh.

He isn't close to me, probably a hundred feet or so away, but I catch his eye immediately, and I realize a little late that he had already been looking at me. I glance, for a brief moment, at his district partner—she's also looking at me, her mouth snarled, her eyebrows drawn. Before I can analyze this, I'm drawn back to Cato.

His face isn't as hard as it looked before, on the television during the reapings. It's not warm, or kind, or young; as I vaguely remember it being. It's still cold and detached, like any other Career, but there's shock there, too. I can't tell if it's because of my entrance, or because of me. I'm torn, wondering which is better.

I fight the urge to call his name. It was against so many unwritten rules. Effie would faint. Haymitch would grip my shoulder and ask me what the _hell_ I was thinking, alcohol stale on his breath. _Besides, what would I say after that? I'm not allowed to know who he is…it could get us killed._ I think of anything to warn myself away from the idea, although it's oddly, maddeningly, tempting.

President Snow walks onto his balcony and does the introductions. It's a weak distraction, but it gives me something to look at in place of _him_. I tear my eyes away and echo the introduction in my head. I continue thinking of it as we loop around the circle once more before heading into the training center again. My enthusiasm is gone. My sweaty hand holds like a vice onto Peeta more from trepidation now, rather than excitement. I feel tired all of the sudden.

Our prep teams swarm us like bees. The sound of the training center is reduced to just that, a buzzing in the haze of my mind. I look over and find his blue eyes again—I feel pain as I think of killing him. _You saved me,_ I think, hoping he can somehow hear it. _You saved my sister. And I promised her I would kill you._

I feel the urge to go to him. To walk over, stand ten feet away, and raise a non-threatening bow to him. To grin and tell him he's a terrible shot, even though he's better than I am. To spend silent hours in the woods, hunting together, like a team. I want to go back and tell him that I'm sorry that one day I'll have to kill him to survive.

I want to be able to do just that…kill him. But even now, as his face hardens into a glare to rival his small district partner's, I'm not sure if I can.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Whoa! This chapter is ginormous! But I guess I'm getting a little more comfortable now. The story is starting to make its own way from the books. I'll start adding in my twists and my turns and BAM. You'll forget all about them boring old canon Hunger Games. :P_**

**_Hmm. I'm not sure what to say about this chapter. It's long and it's got a little oomph to it, but really there's not much action yet. However, I hope to zip through the training and get to the Games here soon. A chapter or two, maybe? We shall see._**

**_Also, your reviews are so very kind and VERY helpful to me, honestly. I can't thank you guys enough. I'll probably reply in the next day or so, but I'll be totally honest with you right now: I'm going to be busy writing the next chapter. Ideas are fresh in my head and my fingers are itching. So that's where I'll be for the rest of tonight! Haha. :)_**

**_Alright, well, toodleloo! Thanks for reading._**

I'm left silent as we make our way into the training center—in fact, I'm more than silent. I'm mute. I feel as though I couldn't force a single sound around the lump that is in my throat if I wanted to. And I don't. It's all I can do to keep my thoughts from suffocating me as we ride the crystalline elevator up to our floor for a meal. The building is like all of the ones I've been to, lately—beautiful, modern, full of technology that the people of district twelve don't even have time to dream of. It's amazing, and I'm caught in my mix of awe and despair, tears filling my eyes. I try to say something to the happy, bouncing Effie Trinket as she jabbers about our wonderful performance, but I can only croak at her through my dry throat.

Dinner passes by with a wonderful celebration that I can't fit myself into. I feel detached from the scene, only sucked into it when the cake is delivered and set alight by a girl with dark red hair and pale features. They seem to be stuck in a mask of fear, and I make a small noise of recognition at her. Her eyes widen when they meet mine. I try to swallow the lump in my throat that has stayed there since the parade, but I can't, and she scurries away before anyone notices our near-silent exchange. _Wait, I know you! Stop!_

Haymitch eyes me oddly. I ignore him and turn back to my plate, now empty, my mood more sour than it had been. I had seen the girl before, and her fear only put me off even further. In all, it was a terrible day—when Haymitch urges us to get a good night's sleep for the training tomorrow, I all but jump out of my seat. I try to croak a goodbye at them, but nothing comes once again. I swallow and turn abruptly. It takes too much effort to keep myself from sprinting.

When I make it to my quarters, I shut the door and lock it as tight as I can. Slowly, I lean back against its cool surface, pressing my ear to it as I hear Peeta walk past, to his own room down the hall from mine. When his door clicks shut, I let out a broken sigh and slide down to the floor.

My plan, upon coming in here, had been to close my eyes and pray that I wouldn't wake up. Now, however, I stare at the beautiful room and can't bear to do so—sleep would only rush the inevitable training, and the consequent face-to-face I would have with him.

I run through the scenarios in my head. I can avoid him easily, and I know I will. The problem, however, lies with what he will do. I hadn't missed the recognition in his gaze just before he'd melted into that scowl that seemed to fit his new, hardened face. He knew me, and I'm sure it had been confirmed when he'd watched the reapings and heard the crowd screaming my name. Will he avoid me as well? I can only hope so, because that would make everything so much easier. But then I remember his stubbornness, the way he doesn't give up on his prey, and I imagine him stalking over to me, his new body hulking over mine as he interrogates me. However, what would he say? We can't reveal that we know each other. And I'm sure he has nothing to say to me, regardless. I'm lucky that he remembers me, as it is.

This calms me. He would have no reason to come to me, and even if he did, I know Cato is not stupid. He wouldn't risk letting our secret out just to come say a few meaningless words. I'm being an idiot for wasting the time to think this through in the first place.

Not really satisfied, I get up and sit on my bed. It takes me a while to push the thoughts away and lie back onto the soft mattress, but not long after, I fall asleep.

When I wake up, I don't remember my dream, but something about it has a question lingering in my head. I find myself wondering, as I step into the shower and absently press buttons, what was the strategy behind the hand-holding at the parade last night? Cinna had shouted it to us at the last minute and we'd done so without hesitation. It had been a good choice for me, because I'm sure I would have fallen off our chariot if Peeta hadn't been attached to me. Was Cinna that aware of my fear, or was there another motive to it? I think of the other tributes, standing rigidly side by side, creating as much space between them as possible. I could have held onto anything else…the chariot, the horse reigns, and it would have been more stable than Peeta. So why?

I shake my head to clear it.

I slip on my clothes when I'm done with a horrific shower and go to eat. I haven't been called, and I wonder briefly if any food will be available, but when I round the corner, there's a long counter with dozens of Capitol delicacies laid out on it. A boy in a white tunic stands there next to it, completely still, staring straight ahead, and looking just as terrified as that familiar girl from yesterday. She still nags at the back of my mind—why does she seem so familiar? I know I haven't seen nor met a Capitol servant in all my life. It's not possible. But I _know_ her. I'm positive.

He moves to serve me, breaking my train of thought. I shake my head and gently put a hand on his outstretched arm. He flinches violently and shrinks away. His reaction leaves me reeling. "I'm…sorry." I hesitate again, looking him in the eye, and he averts his gaze to the floor. "I didn't mean to…" He shakes his head slightly, sadly. I stop speaking for a moment. "What's happened to you? Why are you so scared of me?"

He looks around us first. There's no one there, behind me or behind him. Then he gazes to the ceilings, searching for something. I follow his gaze for a moment before turning back to him. He seems satisfied, and then his eyes turn on me. The boy has a kind enough face, when I look past the fear. His eyes are a light green, his hair is an ashen blonde, and his skin is tanned. He looks ridiculously normal, even compared to Cinna.

Then he opens his mouth.

I clap my hand over my own, widening in a sudden scream of shock.

Desperately, I scan the inside of his mouth, searching for it, but there's nothing there. Just past his teeth is the squishy pink of his lower mouth. I can see veins there, pulsing with blood. But down the middle is a huge scar, puckered and red. Right where his tongue should be.

I don't understand. I don't want to understand, really. I don't ask any more questions—instead, I set my hand lightly on his open jaw, and he slowly closes his mouth. Pity and fear form an icy ball in my chest. "I'm so sorry," I whisper. Now I'm suddenly aware that others shouldn't see this exchange, and I glance around as well. We're left alone, but soon enough I hear footsteps.

The boy does as well, and he steps back to his spot, reaching over once again to serve me. I swallow hard and shake my head. I try to make my voice strong, "No, please. I'll serve myself."

He nods in return, shrinking back into his original spot as Haymitch and Peeta come into the room. I immediately feel regret as he looks down and away, but I have no time for that. Instead, I compose myself and set food onto my plate. However, as I stare down at it, I find that I'm no longer hungry.

I take small portions of various things I haven't tried yet, a roll, and some hot chocolate. Peeta and Haymitch follow my example, piling things onto their plate without the boy's help, and setting themselves down at the table. I sit next to Peeta and pick away as they eat without talking. But now, I have something I need to ask.

"Who are they?" I gesture vaguely to the boy in the corner.

Haymitch speaks around his food, just as Effie hates, "Who?"

I sigh. "Them," I say, pointing directly to the boy. "They don't speak and they serve us. Who are they? Capitol employees?"

The look I receive makes me feel like an idiot, and I nearly regret asking. When he sees that I'm serious, however, Haymitch swallows his food and wipes his mouth on his sleeve—another thing Effie would berate him for. "Avoxes."

"Avoxes?" I echo blankly.

"Traitors of the Capitol. They did something bad, so they got their tongues cut so they can't speak. Now they serve the Capitol, no questions asked. Literally." He shrugs, like this was nothing, but my horror only deepens. I feel it in my bones.

I look over to Peeta, who glances at Haymitch, me, the boy, and me again. I can read compassion in his eyes, but eventually he gives a small shrug as well and goes back to eating without saying anything. I really haven't spoken to my district partner before, but I wonder if he's as indifferent as he's portraying himself to be. I'm not.

I try to think of something else, and my mind is at the ready with another, terrible line of thought. Training springs into my mind as I watch Haymitch slurp his second bowl of stew, pausing only to breathe or drink from his personal flask. A foul mix of soup and spirits runs down his chin, but he's past caring as he gorges himself. He doesn't even look at Peeta and me now, only his bowl.

This is my mentor. My lifeline.

I shudder, setting down my half eaten roll. I can't eat anymore. I push my plate away, and Peeta does the same a few moments later. We watch Haymitch knock back two more bowls of stew before pushing his dishes away and leaning back in his chair to take a long pull of his flask. He belches, smacking his lips, and then leans forward onto his elbows. His eyebrows are raised, his half-sober eyes contemplative. "So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you'd like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now."

I'd never given much thought as to the actual training of the tributes, so his sudden offer of a choice catches me off guard. It felt like it had been years since I'd had a true _choice_ in anything, and in a way, it had. After my father's death, my mother didn't give me a choice. Prim's empty stomach didn't give me a choice. I _had_ to hunt. And then when Prim had been called, I had no other alternative. She was _not_ going into the games. I _had_ to take her place. When we'd gotten into the center, I _had _to be stripped bare, cleaned, ripped of my hair, and paraded in a fiery costume in front of thousands of bloodthirsty Capitol residence.

I _had_ to.

I'm suddenly lost as I look to Peeta for assistance. I don't see why we would be coached separately. In fact, it doesn't seem like a very efficient way to spend time. He looks just as surprised as I feel.

"Why would you coach us separately?" I ask.

"Say you had a secret skill you may not want the other to know about," says Haymitch.

Once again, I turn to Peeta. "I don't have any secret skills," he admits. "And I already know what yours is, I think. Don't you hunt for my dad?"

I hunt for a lot of people. "The baker?"

"Yeah. We eat your squirrels all the time." He shrugs, small smile on his face. "Shot through the eye every time."

I feel an unexpected heat in my cheeks, and I have the urge to scowl, but Peeta is looking at me with that kind smile, those light eyes and happy face. For a second, I think, _I don't want you to die. _But I can't be mad about his praise—really, I have no reason to be. However, there is suspicion building in the back of my mind. What is he playing at, making me sound so good in front of Haymitch? Does this happy, innocent looking boy already have a plan at the ready when I barely know what's going on?

I shake the nonsense away. It won't help to dwell on it, and I can't outright ask him. "Thanks," I finally say, a few seconds too late, but he doesn't seem to notice. His eyes shine in the light of the sun as it rises and reflects off the pristine Capitol skyscrapers. It looks nice.

I turn to Haymitch. "You can coach us together," I confirm. He nods.

"Alright, well, you're an archer then—that's good. Distance is good." He continues nodding, this time in approval. Then he rounds on Peeta, "And you?"

"Does baking bread count?"

"Uh—no." Haymitch gives Peeta a dry look.

I examine the boy's profile as he looks helplessly at our mentor. I'd seen him at the market before, when I was delivering my goods. I hadn't paid much attention, but he'd been lugging large sacks of flour around like they were nothing; heaving them onto his shoulders two at a time and carrying them with little effort. As I think of this, I remember hearing about him for a while—a boy from the "good" side of town had placed in our wrestling competition. It was rare, because the lives of kids from the markets were pampered compared to us of the Seam—so a boy who had been well fed, clothed, and cared for, placing against the Seam boys who had faced hardships, starvation, and hard labor? No way.

"He can wrestle," I say after a few beats of silence. Peeta looks to me curiously, but Haymitch only nods.

"Hand to hand. That can be good—if there's a shortage of weapons, you might not be totally screwed. And if you get your hands on a knife, you'll be a force for sure."

Peeta looks like he wants to protest, but Haymitch cuts him off. "Alright, here's what we do—you guys aren't like some of the others. You're not good at everything. You've got a skill, you stick by it in the Games. But during training, steer clear. You," he looks to Peeta, "don't lift anything heavy. If you think it'll give you even a little bit of trouble, don't bother. And you," he turns to me, "no bows. Only show these skills when you're in the private session. Got it?"

We both nod. He's right. Since we don't have an advantage in _everything_, we need to keep what little leverage we do possess to ourselves.

"So, you walk in and do something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Paint. Hell, I don't really give a damn what you do—just _don't_ go showing off yet." He eyes us both for a moment with a stern look, and it's the most sober I've seen him, even though he's clearly already intoxicated. "And really, that's about it. Oh, but one more thing."

We pause to listen. "When you two are in public, I want you attached at the hip. Stay by each other's side every minute."

"But—" we both begin at the same time, immediately protesting this ludicrous idea of his.

His hand slams on the table hard, clinking our dishes together and making my roll bounce off my plate. We stare in unified shock at the outburst. "No buts! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I say, and I _say_ that you two are gonna be amiable to each other out in the open! Stay together, stay friendly," he all but snarls. I flinch back. He'd shown aggression before, but right now, he just felt _mean_. "Meet Effie in the elevator at ten. She'll take you to training."

There's a beat of silence, and when I finally pull together my nerves, I rise from my chair quickly, my movements jerky with my rising anger. I stalk to my room, footfalls heavy, and slam my door. _How dare he? He has no right! What's this act for when we're just going to kill each other anyway? There's no point…_

I throw myself onto my bed with every ounce of indignation I can muster. I think of Peeta, and I think of Cato, and I feel utterly hopeless. _I don't want to kill either of you,_ I think to myself, seeing their faces in my mind. _But I have to. Why do I have to? What kind of place makes people do these things to each other?_

But I know that already. My misguided anger is not actually for Peeta, or for Haymitch, or for Effie, or even for that strange version of Cato I saw yesterday. No, my real hatred lies with the Capitol and its sick ways of gaining entertainment. Suddenly, I feel disgusted for getting such a high off of the screams of my name the night before. I was just as much of a monster for letting them cheer for me. _They don't have the right,_ I think sullenly, _to cheer for someone they're condemning to death. They just don't._


End file.
